


Fuzzy

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A teeny bit of angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, and sherlock's high, but it's fluffy angst, sherlock POV, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:25:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's high on morphine after being shot.  A companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1881309">Not Again</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuzzy

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't dream of writing the glorious mess that Sherlock's train of thought surely is, but I figured it might be easier if he was hopped up on IV morphine.

Sherlock’s mouth felt fuzzy. Not dry, fuzzy. Like candyfloss without the sweetness. It’s been a long time since he's felt this, and it's quite pleasant. At least since after John’s wedding. Sherlock inwardly shudders. Not his best memory.

He wants to continue to float, to run his tongue over the backs of his teeth and hard palate and feel how _fuzzy_. But he knows he shouldn’t, especially because there are two Johns—not quite two, more like one and a half, no, one and three-quarters—Johns pacing at the end of his bed. They are yelling something. Loud. John is angry.

He tries to say something but his tongue won’t work right. It’s because his tongue is fuzzy too. “Jawwwnnn…” oh, that sounds strange. It’s his tongue. It’s most certainly not his brain. He’s been much higher than he is now before. And he didn’t lose that much blood. He doesn’t think. And besides, they had hung at least two bags since he got here. He counted. Maybe it was three?

Sherlock leans back—hoooo, too fast—then forward, squinting. No, still one and three-quarters Johns. Why is he yelling? Everything is ok, he is in hospital and they gave him pudding and soon he would go home and he wanted to focus on his fuzzy mouth.

““What if, Sherlock, what if it hadn’t been just your shoulder, and I wasn’t there?”

That pulls Sherlock’s mind off his fuzzy mouth. The Johns are looking at him. They look sad. More than sad. Lost. But John’s, Johnes, they’re not lost, they’re right here. Maybe he’s worried Sherlock is lost? Couldn’t be, Sherlock’s right here. He’s Sherlock. He’s pretty sure he’s Sherlock.

Sherlock sees John’s leg twitch, just a bit. Uh oh. That’s a Bit Not Good. Wait! He still has pudding. John likes pudding. Maybe pudding will make the Johns stop yelling, and then he can float and concentrate on his fuzzy mouth to his heart’s content.

“John, you can have my pudding.” That was hard to get out.

“What?”

“Pudding. They gave me two…you can have…” Sherlock reaches back for the pudding sitting on a tray on the bedside table and his fuzzy mouth is instantly forgotten. He freezes and jolts as pain sears up his arm and down his chest. “Ahhhahhhaa!” He hasn’t felt this much pain since—

“Jesus, Sherlock!” The Johns are at his side in an instant, easing him back into the pillow. Sherlock thinks he hears John call him an idiot but it’s in his John-way so it’s ok. “You can’t keep scaring me like this, Sherlock. Please.” John’s hand is still resting on his arm, holding it down at his side, gently. His thumb brushes over Sherlock’s skin and he feels sparks of electricity. Maybe it’s the morphine.

He opens his eyes to look at John. There’s only one John now. No, it’s not the morphine. John’s eyes still look sad, but they look relieved now too. Maybe they were relieved before, but the Johns were just too far away.   Sherlock doesn’t want John to be sad anymore. Just relieved. Maybe if he holds John’s hand he’ll realize everything is ok? Sherlock just has one more bullet hole than him now. John doesn’t need any more bullet holes. But now they have matching bullet wounds! That’s nice.

“We match now.” Sherlock drags his good arm over and places his hand on Johns. He’s surprised John doesn’t grunt under the weight, his hand felt so heavy when he lifted it. But John’s strong. Maybe that’s why.

“Yeah, I guess we do.” Good, John sounds a little happier. And he’s squeezing Sherlock’s hand. That’s nice too. And now Sherlock can go back to floating and his fuzzy mouth before they take the morphine away. Just as Sherlock closes his eyes and starts to sink back into the pillow, he feels John in his head. No, his nose in his hair. John is in his hair. Now THAT is nice. Sherlock decides to lean his head into John instead of the pillow. John is better than a pillow. And he smells nice. He smells like _John._ And beer.

“No more, Sherlock. I come with you. From now on. Always.”

“Mmmm…” This really is nice, floating and leaning against John. Then he feels warm, dry lips press hard into the side of his head. It’s startling, but in the best way possible. Floating and pudding and a fuzzy mouth and a John-pillow and now a kiss? Being shot isn’t so bad.

“And I AM eating your pudding.”

That’s ok. Sherlock doesn’t need the pudding. Floating and a fuzzy mouth and a John-pillow and a kiss are enough. John can have the pudding.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I remember of my train of thought when I was hooked to IV morphine during an ear abscess. My mouth was fuzzy, but it wasn't bad fuzzy and it was kind of neat, and everything was floaty. And I remember being so in love with the hospital pudding. So, in case anyone was wondering, this is essentially what I am like high on morphine. I don't particularly want to relive it, but it wasn't too bad.
> 
> Everyone's mileage varies. It;s not like this for everyone.


End file.
